


I Ought to Steal Your Heart Away

by GraphiteFox



Series: Red Rover [3]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:31:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphiteFox/pseuds/GraphiteFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Merlin have their first mission together in the heat of Morocco.  Merlin just wants to do his job and make it home in one piece.  Harry wants Merlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Ought to Steal Your Heart Away

**Author's Note:**

> Serves me right for setting this story in a country I know nothing about now, nevertheless in the 80s. The important thing is that young Harry Hart is a menace and young Merlin is a ball of nerves and they are about to become floofy boyfriends okay?

               The hotel is awful, but they aren’t actually going to sleep in it so Merlin doesn’t dwell on it much. What’s really getting to him is the _heat_. Marrakesh in July is unfairly hot and today is also unseasonably humid. At least the nights are cool, which would be a nice consolation if that’s when their mission was happening. But no, they’re expected to act in broad daylight. Merlin would be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned.

                He’s been whittling away the time by studying his English to Arabic translation guide, though if he’s honest, he’s not actually absorbing anything. His partner is far too distracting. Galahad—Harry, he prefers to be called whenever possible—is a few years older than Merlin, but you wouldn’t know to see him.

                He’s got a soft, pretty face and those lazy curls that are in style these days. The few times Merlin’s seen him around HQ, his hair’s been slicked down with pomade to look more refined. He’s wearing it curly today because “with this damned heat, why bother?” This hasn’t stopped him from poking it around and making it fluffier by the second.

               Merlin doesn’t have much of an opinion about Harry, other than that he spends too long in front of a mirror. The man seems nice enough, if a little boastful, and there’s a hint of mischief in the way he smiles that catches Merlin’s attention. He knows that Harry already holds the record for being scolded by Arthur and he’s only been in the field a _year_.

               Merlin has not yet been scolded and he plans to keep his head down and do his job. This resolution is being tested every moment they’re together. Galahad seems desperate for a partner in crime, so to speak. Merlin is not going to let himself be roped in.

               Harry is sitting on the bed, blowing thin streams of smoke into the room. In the heavy air, the smoke lingers, irritating Merlin’s eyes and nose.

               “Could you please not?” he asks, trying to sound as polite as possible. “They make me ill.”

                Harry stares at him for a moment, then jumps up and mashes the cigarette out. He then tosses the rest of the pack onto the bed. Now he has nothing to distract him. Nothing but Merlin.

                “It’s fine to be nervous,” says Harry, draping his arms over the opposite chair. He’s got a lazy smile but sharp eyes—a dangerous combination if there ever was one. Merlin looks back down at his Arabic translation guide and wonders how many pages he’s glossed over.

                “This isn’t my first mission, you know.”

                “Your second, then?”

                Harry’s tone is not quite mocking, but Merlin knows when he’s being made fun of. Harry has been Galahad for only a year but that’s still a year of experience that Merlin doesn’t have. So he keeps his tone neutral as he responds, “I’m fortunate to be paired with a veteran like yourself.”

                Harry, surprisingly, laughs at this. “I’ve seen your scores, _Merlin_ , and I’m pretty sure I’m the fortunate one.”

                Merlin glances up at this, right into Harry’s gaze. There’s something earnest about him under that fluffy hair. He’s hard to hate and he knows it.

                As though he can sense Merlin’s thoughts, Harry winks at him.

                It occurs to Merlin that there is a slight possibility Harry is flirting with him.

               The Kingsmen exalt skill and discretion above all else, so while Merlin’s sexuality would not necessarily be demonized, it’s unlikely to be appreciated, either. He’s done a good job of keeping his private life private. Skill and discretion are attributes he prides _himself_ on.

                Harry is still watching him, waiting for him to react. Of course the troublemaker would be gay, or at least bisexual. Or maybe he’s having Merlin on and this is going to turn into a cruel joke. He decides the best course of action is to ignore it.

                “We should get going,” he tells Harry, and catches the hint of a pout. Then Harry is tugging on his suit coat and checking that his pistol is secure, suddenly all business.

                It’s even hotter outside, and dusty. Merlin envies Harry’s lightweight summer suit and makes a mental note to request one of his own. If they’re going to send him to the surface of the sun, they can at least give him a suit that breathes.

                They stroll past the markets and the usual tourist areas, out towards the edge of town. Their mission involves a cache of weapons, which is supposed to be driven out to the ports tonight. All they need to do is change the manifest so the wrong container goes out to Casablanca while the weapons head to Tangier, to be disposed of by their allies. Merlin thinks it’s a terrible plan. There’s too much room for error.

                He’s proved right when they arrive.

                “Shit,” Harry mutters. “They haven’t even sealed up the container yet.”

                Merlin can see a mess of firearms and God knows what else lining the steel shipping box. He can also see five guards with automatic rifles. They aren’t getting anywhere near the manifest.

                Most of the containers are in the open and the warehouse is just an old building with strangely elaborate pillars. If they can get onto the building, they can try to pick the guards off. Still, it would be better to get out of this without resorting to violence at all.

                “Fall back,” Harry whispers, but Merlin cranes his neck just a bit, trying to see if there’s another approach they can use.

                Two guards spot them and immediately start shouting in Arabic.

                “Act like a tourist,” Merlin suggests, as though a five-year-old couldn’t have come up with that idea.

                “The market?” Harry asks loudly, then before Merlin can try to engage them with his shaky Arabic, mutters “to hell with it” and draws his gun. Five seconds later, they’re holed up behind a shipping container while bullets clang off the side in rapid succession.

                “You didn’t even try!” Merlin shouts at him.

                “It’s hot,” Harry shouts back. “Let’s just get this over with!” He swings around the container and takes several shots. Judging from the brief lack of return fire, he’s managed to hit at least one of the men. Merlin’s attempt is similarly successful, though it requires more bullets.

                “Now what?” asks Merlin. “And don’t say you—“

                “I have a plan.”

                Before Merlin can yell at him some more, there’s a clatter above them and a grenade tips over the metal container. He and Harry scramble away in opposite directions. The explosion sends him sprawling into the open, momentarily deaf. He has enough of his wits still to shoot the two closest attackers, but his cartridge is now empty and he needs cover.

                He ducks behind one of the building’s many pillars, but not before catching another guard’s attention. He can faintly hear a second explosion and he hopes Galahad is alive, if only so he can kick his ass later. A spray of bullets sends him crouching down, fingers fumbling in his pocket for a new cartridge. His palms are sweating so badly that it slips in his grasp at first.

                Slamming it in, he rolls onto his knees, already aiming, but the guard has his rifle pointed right at Merlin’s face. Galahad isn’t the only one setting records, Merlin thinks. He’s about to set one for the shortest appointment in Kingsman history.

                A hard shove sends him sprawling face-first in the dirt. Pain lances through his chin. He rolls over to see Harry wince, then stagger forward as the shot rings out. His pistol is beside him; Merlin grabs it and shoots the man in the face. The silence that follows is almost unnerving.

                He doesn’t have a second to catch his breath before Harry is hauling him up. “Go, go!”

                “The cache,” Merlin manages, already running.

                “Grenade in the container, problem solved,” Harry gasps back.

                Merlin remembers how Harry’s body jerked and a shiver jolts through him, despite the heat.

                _Harry’s been shot_. _Harry’s been shot protecting_ me _._

                There’s a first aid kit back at the hotel, and Merlin can stitch a wound—at least he _thinks_ he can, he’s never done it on actual flesh before—assuming Harry even makes it back to the hotel. What if the bullet’s still inside? What if he bleeds out before their transport arrives? He’s too busy panicking to notice that Harry’s keeping up with him, and if he does, he chalks it up to adrenaline.

                Every inch of his body is sticky with sweat and his chin burns. _Please God don’t let me be responsible for an agent’s death._

The hotel is owned by Kingsman allies, so no one blinks when they stumble through the back door, disheveled and panting. They’ve barely gotten inside the room before Merlin is pulling Harry towards the bed, his eyes and hands searching for the point of impact.

                “You could at least ask me to dinner first,” Harry laughs breathlessly, and Merlin stills, his hands resting on the other agent’s back.

                “You— _oh_.”

                “Bulletproof suit, remember?”

                Harry’s eyes are shining and Merlin wishes he’d been killed after all. He pulls away, unsure of what to do with himself. Maybe jump through the window. He settles for crouching on the carpet with his head down while he catches his breath.

                “These lighter suits don’t absorb as much impact,” Harry explains. “I’ll have one hell of a bruise to show for it. Still, better than yours. You look ready to pass out.”

                Merlin straightens, still panting. Unable to stand it, he shucks off his dusty coat and tugs his shirt collar open. “I thought you needed medical attention,” he says lamely.

                “You’re the one in need of medical attention,” says Harry, pointing at his chin. “I shoved you rather hard, I’m afraid.”

                “I can’t exactly complain.”

                “We have time,” Harry tells him, pulling out the first aid kit. “I’ll play nurse instead.”

                Merlin reaches for the kit. “I can do it.” The moment he closes his hand on it, a stinging pain makes him hiss. His right palm is bloodied and full of grit from where he broke his fall.

                “Sit,” Harry instructs, and Merlin does, unwilling to embarrass himself anymore. This has been a disaster. When they get back he’s going to request to be made a handler. He won’t even need the summer suit.

                Harry works methodically, cleaning away the dirt and blood from Merlin’s chin and hand. It stings, but Merlin hardly notices. He’s too aware of Harry’s fingers along his jawline, holding him still.  Then they’re pressing lightly on either side of Merlin’s palm, almost cradling. It would be soothing if he wasn’t so worked up, and so eager to read into every touch.

                He does his best to keep his eyes averted, but Harry stares and smiles as he works. Merlin’s face feels flushed and it’s not just from the earlier exertion. Finally, Harry leans back, gathering up the used supplies.

                “All done,” he announces. “And while you _have_ been a good boy, there are no lollipops in this kit, I’m afraid.”

                “They would have melted anyway,” Merlin points out. His palm is already sweaty again and the scratches sting. Harry is still staring at him, his head tilted ever so slightly. “What?”

                “Your eyes are rather impressive.”

                “My…eyes.”

                “Yes, you use them to see? Those.”

                “I know what eyes are!” Merlin snaps. “I don’t understand why you’d bring them up!”

                “You really don’t, do you?” Harry muses. He snaps the kit shut and shoves it into the small duffel they brought for the mission. The smile is gone now. He looks almost disappointed.

                Merlin is going to regret this.

                “Galahad.”

                “Harry.”

                “ _Galahad_ ,” Merlin insists, because they’re still on the mission, and what he’s about to ask is easier if he uses codenames. “Are you flirting with me?”

                Harry rolls his eyes. “ _Yes. Christ._ I was running out of ideas short of just snogging you. For someone so clever you’re rather oblivious.”

                “Oh.” Merlin takes a moment to appreciate the situation. Harry does like him. The arrogant, suave, undoubtedly vain Harry Hart likes _him_.

                Harry, having misread Merlin’s silence, says quickly, “I was serious about dinner. Or are you not interested?”

                Merlin frowns. “In dinner or in you?”

                “Me, obviously. Everyone has some interest in dinner,” Harry replies as he uses his fingers to comb his hair back into place.

                “Are you always this forward?”

                Harry grins. “Asks the man who was feeling me up moments ago.”

                “That was different! I thought you were bleeding out!”

                “You still haven’t answered my question.”

                Sucking in a quick breath, Merlin replies, “I am interested. In you and in dinner.”

                Harry is all smiles, like a child who’s won a prize. “Our flight gets in at seven tonight. I don’t mind eating a little late if you don’t. Or am I being too forward again?”

                “We still have to write our reports,” Merlin points out.

                “Turn it in tomorrow. The worst that happens is Arthur scowls at you, which is his normal expression anyway.”

                “Absolutely not.”            

                Harry huffs. “I _would_ pick the serious one.”

                He drops into one of the chairs, relaxing his limbs and casting an exaggerated frown at the wall. After a few seconds pass, he glances over at Merlin, then looks away again. The slender curve of his neck is visible: Merlin catches him raising his chin the slightest bit to further accentuate his profile.

                He looks every bit the spoiled rich boy and Merlin still wants to kiss him senseless. “Reports first, then we eat. You can write it on the plane.”

                Harry sits up immediately, grinning. “Deal. Arthur’s going to wonder if I’m concussed, getting a report in same day.”

                “Or he’ll just think ‘the serious one’ is a good influence,” Merlin replies dryly, collecting their few belongings and adding them to the duffel.

                “Influence me all you’d like,” Harry responds, his voice languid and velvety. This time Merlin has no misconceptions as to what he means. His heart is a little jittery from the running still, and from the constant onslaught of Harry’s brand of charm.

                “The transport should be here soon.”

                Harry rises obediently and heads for the door.

                “You’re forgetting these,” Merlin says, holding up the pack of cigarettes.

                “Don’t need ‘em,” Harry responds. “Not if I’m going to be spending time with you.”

                Merlin wonders how long it will be before Harry ceases to surprise him. He tosses the cigarettes into the trash can and slings the duffel over his shoulder.

                Before Harry can open the door, Merlin stops him.

                “Galahad. How did you know I’d be interested?”

                Harry shrugs, his boyish smile both charming and arrogant. “I didn’t. But you seemed worth the risk.”

+

                Gawain stops him in the hallway at HQ the next day. “How was Morocco?”

                “Hot,” Merlin responds.

                The older agent nods politely. “And how did it go with Galahad? This was your first mission together, right?”

                Even though he knows no one can see it, the hickey under Merlin’s shirt collar is burning. It turns out that Harry’s idea of a good night kiss involves the strategic use of teeth. Merlin’s anxious to learn what Harry’s other ideas entail.

                “It went well. He’s very skilled,” Merlin replies, hoping his voice sounds level. He’s going to have to get it together quickly. He’s never had a problem hiding his previous attractions, but they’ve never been Harry-goddamn-Hart. Gawain is talking again and Merlin forces himself to focus.

                “—both top of your respective units, so I wasn’t surprised when he requested you for the mission. A huge relief for me,” Gawain continues, “since I hate the heat.”

                “Right.” Harry _requested_ him? They exchange a few more polite words and then Merlin heads for the subway, his mind running.

                He climbs into the empty car and is about to shut the doors when a familiar drawl stops him.

                “May I join you?” Harry sits primly across from him, every bit the gentleman. His hair is slicked down today and Merlin finds himself missing the wayward curls.

                The moment the door closes, Harry jumps up and takes the seat next to him. “How’s your chin?”

                “Itches. What’s this about you requesting me for Marrakesh?”

                “If I’d waited for us to be _assigned_ a mission together, I would have grown old before getting a chance to talk to you alone. It’s obvious you’re going to become a handler, so I needed to build a rapport with you before that happened.”

                “Why would that matter?” asks Merlin.

                Harry sighs before tapping Merlin’s forehead with one long finger. “So you can be _my_ handler. Clever but oblivious.”

                “You want me to be your handler?” Merlin can’t help but feel insanely pleased.

                “Are you serious? That deep Scottish brogue in my ear, ordering me around…” Harry pretends to shiver.

                Any handler is going to have their hands full with Harry. Merlin thinks he’s more than up for the task.

                “If you think I’m going to go easy on you…”

                But Harry is all innocence as he replies, “I’m counting on you to hold me to your high standards.”

                Merlin snorts. “Good luck convincing Arthur.”

                Harry hums in amusement. “Dinner?”

                “Let’s eat in,” Merlin suggests.

                Harry’s grin practically covers his entire face. “Who’s the one being forward now?”

                “We’re almost to the shop. Go back to your seat.”

                “ _Go back to your seat_ ,” Harry mimics, in an exaggeration of Merlin’s accent. “Why _wouldn’t_ I want to hear that voice at all times?”

                “Don’t be childish.”

                Harry returns to his seat, leaving Merlin to contemplate how much longer it will be before he has a chance to wipe that smirk off Harry’s gorgeous face. And if they’re both a little tired tomorrow, it will be coincidence, nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always thought that young Harry was a lot like Eggsy, a little brash, a little arrogant (with a posh edge of course), which is why he gets along with Eggsy so well. I can imagine Merlin interacting with Eggsy for the first time and then immediately going to Harry afterwards saying “I know exactly why you picked him, you bastard, it’s like dealing with you all over again!” And Harry of course feigning ignorance.
> 
> I left a lot of the tech out because in my mind, Merlin is the one who really develops a lot of what we see Harry use in the film. Handlers are just beginning to become a regular thing and post-Marrakesh, Merlin pushes to make them required.
> 
> I was listening to Fleetwood Mac's Say You Will album while writing most of this.


End file.
